Fifteen: First Meeting

"Where is he?" Arlen snapped, limping to the window and peering out into the drizzle. There was still no sign of Haverford, and if they were late to his first meeting with the guild, Arlen was for it.

Marick had surprised him with the request; the boy was nowhere near ready by Arlen's estimations. He had expected to have a few months to get him prepared, and now it appeared he'd have the length of time it took to reach the beer hall by carriage – and that was if the kid showed up at all.

If he'd been able-bodied, Arlen would have gone out for the boy himself; Jesper was too nervy to hang around the witch-man's place. He'd almost refused to run the message at all, and Arlen owed him several pints for the trouble of that, let alone ensuring he got to the quarter in time. If Marick had only given more notice...

A dark figure appeared at the mouth of the alley, and Arlen's chest eased when the distinctive cut of an Unspoken cloak was briefly outlined in the light of a street lamp.

"That him?" Usk grunted through a cloud of blackweed, noting the change.

"Finally." Arlen limped back inside and shoved his hunting knife into his belt. "We'll make it. Just about."

Haverford clambered inside a moment later, breathing hard. "Am I late?" he gasped.

"Scraped in by the skin of your teeth," Usk said, as Arlen scowled at him. "Get changed, kid, carriage will be here any minute."

"Why do we need...oh." Jordan quailed under Arlen's glower and hurried to the corner where he kept his change of clothes.

Arlen glared at the back of his head. "What was the hold-up?"

"Wasn't expecting it," Jordan muttered. "Didn't have time to plan a good excuse for going out."

"So what did you do?"

Jordan's shoulders stiffened. "I got out over the courtyard fence. My tutors are going to skin me alive when I get back."

"Risky," Usk rumbled.

"Not as risky as trying to lie," Jordan snapped, the evening clearly wearing on him already. For once, Arlen decided to let it slide. Marick had blindsided both of them – it was hardly the boy's fault, and the less he added to the stress, the better. "If I'd asked first, I'd never have been allowed to leave."

He finished dressing and turned around as he was pulling his scarf over his face. Before he flipped up his hood, Arlen noted that the kid looked like shit; his green eyes glowed like coals in dark hollows, skin pale and drawn. A bruise was fading on his temple. There was a wild, almost desperate look to him. He'd seen looks like that on guild members who were starting to crack, and experienced a flicker of alarm. The boy was definitely nowhere near ready to meet the guild; he had a lot of toughening up to do before then.

"You look like shit, kid," Arlen muttered. "And coming from a guy who recently lost half a leg, that's even less of a compliment."

"Wonder why," Jordan replied, but without enough heat to be considered impertinent. He pulled on his gloves and spread his hands in a shrug. "Are we going, then?"

As if on cue, the carriage rumbled to a stop in the street outside. With a lingering look at Jordan, Usk crossed the room and climbed out first, reaching back in to take Arlen's walking stick. They had reconfigured the crates to make it a simpler climb, but it was still slow going and Arlen had broken into a light sweat by the time he reached the cobbles. Scowling, he took back his walking stick and limped to the carriage, and the driver opened the door just before he reached it like he was some sort of invalid.

"Catch you there, Arl," Usk grunted. The giant melted into the shadows and was gone.

"Do I...?" Jordan began, but stopped when Arlen gestured impatiently at the open door.

"Just get in."

Arlen hated travelling by carriage – this particular example little more than a stinking, musty box Marick had had stolen from one of the rich bastards in the Orthanian quarter and repainted. It was still a better prospect than trying to hobble there without getting shanked or at least having his false leg kicked out from under him, and he settled into the seat, schooling the dark look off his face. In the enclosed space, Haverford's crackling magic was an oppressive presence, even if he suspected the boy was trying to keep it contained. The prickling buzz plucked at his eyes and throat and made him fidget. Jordan just stared out the window, silent, though he was tense as if he sensed Arlen's discomfort.

"Can't pull it in anymore," he finally muttered. "Starts burning."

Arlen waved it off. "Let it loose as you like when we get there. It'll help more than anything." He sighed. "Just to be clear, this was just as much of a surprise to me as to you, so I'm laying down some ground rules now. You don't speak unless answering a direct question, otherwise you let me do the talking. Do not allow yourself to get riled up by any teasing. Stick with the Devils you know as far as you can, preferably by me, but Usk, Jes or Akiva if that's not possible. No drawn weapons in the beer hall." He paused, and then added stiffly, "And if Silas is there, you absolutely do not engage with him. You got that?"

"Yep." They both ignored the crack in Jordan's voice.

"I don't know why Marick has requested your presence tonight," Arlen continued, squashing his own irritation, "but whatever reason it is, be smart. Don't agree to anything you aren't certain you can deliver. If he asks, and you're not sure, tell him I've forced you to approve any jobs with me first. He'll honour it." Hopefully.

"Got it." Jordan returned to staring out the window.

"Try not to panic," Arlen added, after studying him for a minute. There was no outward sign that Jordan was nervous, but with every passing minute the crackling the air grew worse, and Arlen was no Unspoken – the last thing he wanted was a spontaneous bonfire mid-meeting – which was why he was saving the lesson in keeping his gob shut around Darin until afterwards. "You're so new no one will be expecting much."

"I'll try my best," Haverford replied, with no change in tone. The crackling continued to worsen.

The rest of the journey was conducted in silence. Arlen adjusted his leg strap and tried to ignore the magic buzzing inside the carriage, so strong now he was starting to sweat in earnest. He had a feeling nothing he could say would improve matters, and the temptation to try and beat it from him with his walking stick grew stronger by the second. It might at least distract the kid.

When the carriage stopped, he hobbled out into the night air with a sigh of relief. A cold wind whipped across his skin, cooling it. The beer hall loomed in front of them, a few drifters hanging around the entrance smoking or doing surreptitious deals before going inside. Some slunk off when they recognised Arlen; others couldn't help their curiosity when Jordan got out behind him, and hovered in the shadows trying to get a better look.

Arlen had to give it to the kid; he had cottoned on quickly. He knew how to carry himself in the dead quarter without looking like a victim, shoulders back and head up, magic snapping ominously in the air around him. Arlen suppressed a smirk. That would knock a few of the other guild members off their perches.

The thought of how Arlen probably looked in contrast soured his mood – reputation alone propped him upright, that and a rickety walking stick Usk had stolen from Nict-knew-where. How long, he wondered, darkening further, before even Marick lost patience with the healing process and started looking for someone else to elevate? The idea left him cold, and the Devil guarding the door received a more venomous glance than he deserved as Arlen passed. Jordan kept close to him, their shoulders brushing as they walked, and he firmly reminded himself that he still had the boy, his wildcard, who seemed perfectly uninclined to have anything to do with anyone else while he was here.

Arlen just had to keep it that way.

Usk had saved them seats near the dais, placing Haverford between them. A low murmur echoed in the shadows, glittering gazes following their progress through the room. He led Jordan close to the perimeters, so they could feel the boy's crackling aura and know that Arlen Blackheart's apprentice was no hoax. The crackling had grown worse when they stepped inside, he guessed from fear rather than deliberate effort, and the kid dragged his feet, alternating between staring at the vast hall ahead of him and at his own feet.

"Look who it is," Akiva said, appearing out of the crowd as they reached Usk. Arlen scowled at him as Jordan flinched like he'd been struck. "Nict's balls, kid, you're heating things up in here."

"Jumping out at him doesn't fucking help," Arlen growled, low enough that the passing serving girl didn't hear what he said. "Fuck's sake, it's not like you don't know what happens."

Akiva's first night out teaching Jordan had brought them both back early, Jordan shaking uncontrollably and Akiva stinking of singed hair. They had both been pretty evasive on the topic of what Akiva had considered an appropriate first lesson, or exactly what had gone wrong, and Arlen had been careful not to schedule Akiva on for whole nights at a time since. Akiva's favoured haunts were crypts, the sites of bad demon attacks, and burial yards for those who didn't want burning but couldn't afford a chamber, treated with a casualness that even made Arlen a bit leery. Sending a kid like Haverford out with that particular Devil had been a risk from the start.

Sure enough, Jordan had stiffened right up. He nodded a greeting and then sat himself on the stool beside Usk, staring straight ahead and not responding to the Varthian's attempts at ribbing him into relaxing a little.

"What's got a stick up his arse?" Akiva said.

"Marick requested him," Arlen said. "If it were up to me, he wouldn't be here for another few months."

"Nerves, huh?" Akiva said, and made as if to saunter over. Arlen grabbed his arm, glowering.

"You aren't going to help," he muttered. "Best thing you can do is make sure none of the others try anything funny with him."

They both glanced around at the shadows, where many eyes still watched what was happening near the dais. Though the Devils were in name a cohesive unit, there was no such thing as a criminal guild where everyone got along. In a fight against forces outside the guild, Devil always sided with Devil, but within it there were those who you dealt with and those you didn't. Arlen's unit was a strong one, but with him out of action and an apprentice with the Gift on the line, he was on alert.

Arlen limped past Akiva, leaving the other Devil to stare out a tattooed whippet of a man at the other end of the bar who looked a little too interested. Jordan leaned back as he passed, and tried to draw himself in as far as possible. Arlen smirked at Usk over his head; the Varthian on his other side prevented Jordan shuffling away completely.

"Sorry, kid," Usk rumbled. "We're your best bet. Unless you wanna go sit with one of them." He gestured at the whispering masses on the other side of the hall. A woman from fairly low down in the rankings smiled at Jordan and made an obscene suggestive gesture.

"No, thanks." Jordan's voice varied admirably in pitch over the two seconds he spoke for.

"You got a girl?" Usk continued.

"No."

"That was unconvincing," Arlen said, leaning back and scanning the room again. He gestured to a serving girl, who quickly returned with three pints. When Jordan looked like he would refuse, Arlen leaned in and hissed, "Don't refuse a drink in Marick's halls. Besides," he said at normal volume, as Jordan took the beer in shaking hands, "you could use something to steady you."

And so could I. He took a few deep gulps of his beer.

"I took you for a late bloomer," Usk said. Jordan clutched at his glass to keep it still as the brute elbowed him in the ribs. "Sly dog."

"I said I don't..."

"You aren't convincing anyone. But fine, keep your secrets."

Arlen eyed Usk sidelong, frowning. He'd taken far too much of a liking to Haverford for Arlen's comfort, but it was reassuringly unreciprocated. The boy couldn't have looked less comfortable if Usk had just handed him a pile of gut-warm shit.

The hall simmered to silence. The crackling from the next stool along spiked, and Arlen set his jaw, keeping his eyes trained on the dais. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Silas against one wall, eyes fixed just past Arlen's shoulder. He shifted to one side, glaring with all the venom he could muster. He received a return glare, but the ex-acolyte stopped trying to get a look.

Marick appeared on the dais like a wraith, soundless in the muttering quiet. His clothes were even finer than usual; a silk waistcoat and pristine white shirt with embroidered cuffs, the kind of clothing that cost a fortune in coin – if one was buying – and effort, if one was stealing. Either way, it was a clear message. He nodded a greeting at Arlen, and then his eyes drifted to Jordan, who stiffened so abruptly the stool rocked. Marick, a tiny smile playing at the corner of his mouth, turned away and sat in his chair. As soon as he had turned his gaze, Arlen jabbed at Jordan's foot with his walking stick, assured he'd hit the mark by a grunt and a muttered curse.

"You're probably wondering where I got these," Marick said. He gestured at his new clothes with a flourish. A chuckle and a few murmurs of wondering assent passed through the room. Though they weren't touching, Arlen sensed how tense Jordan was behind him. Crackling magic pawed at his neck and made him shiver. "I'll tell you. I got them from Harkenn's own wardrobe."

"You never," someone called, jokingly. Marick only smiled, and dug in his pocket before producing a violet sash. He held it up for everyone to see.

"Did I not?"

Purple dye was one of the most expensive colours on the market, and only one man wore it with any regularity. For as long as Arlen could remember, the High Lord of the Reach had worn a violet sash, so much so that it had become a running joke. There was only one place Marick could have got his hands on that material.

Several other Devils gasped; the walking stick squeaked in Arlen's grip. He already didn't like where this was headed.

"You're probably now wondering why I did it." Marick got up and strode to the head of the dais.

"And how!" a voice called from the shadows, followed by a titter of laughter.

"If I didn't think some of you clots might use it as an excuse to try, I would," Marick shot back, grinning. "I did it to demonstrate that our mighty lord is not infallible. He is the same as any other mark, if you know where to stick the knife in." He began to pace. "We shouldn't live in fear of the scaffold, or rely on the whims of an unnatural fiend who just so happens to control the food and timber stocks. Why should we? Why should we, a guild this city has come to fear, live in fear ourselves? Why should we limit ourselves to this quarter, when our influence spreads across the entire city? This has been going on for too long. We have been too content to settle, when we are skilled and strong enough to claim more! Now we reap the consequences; the timber has stopped coming, forcing us to bargain and beg for it, the upper classes are locking away their food, the temple doors of Kiel and Orthan are closed to us, under Harkenn's direction. We must reclaim it, and show them how it feels!"

He must have been living under a rock all this time – his leg had kept him out of the loop for far too long, for the answering roar to surprise Arlen so much. He punched a fist in the air, shaking away his shock, so as not to look like the dissenting second-in-rank. It wouldn't be a move Marick would take kindly, and Arlen's position was precarious enough as it was. Feeling in the guild must have been souring; Usk must not have been telling him the extent of the dark season's toll. When he looked properly, he noticed that many faces looked haggard and wasted and drawn.

"We will take what we can carry," Marick said, "And then we will stamp them out like they stamped us out. We will send Harkenn a message he cannot ignore." His eyes swept the room and settled behind Arlen. The crackling reached an uncomfortable crescendo, and Arlen half-expected to find the bar on fire when he glanced back to check on Haverford.

With the next line out of Marick's mouth, it was all Arlen could do not to spit out his drink and stare, dumbfounded, along with half the occupants of the hall.

"I'm expecting all of you here tomorrow at the noonday bell, sharp, so we can prepare for the evening."

Arlen had no love for Harkenn or the upper classes, but he had seen hardship. He had lived it for most of his life, and he knew who would really take the hit from this attack. It wouldn't bring Unspoken back to the quarter or ensure a timber stock. He was no stranger to killing either – not even particularly squeamish about it – but his marks had usually done something wrong. The occasional guard in the wrong place at the wrong time wasn't something that kept him up at night – and it was quick, at least - but starving a city... He'd be surprised if the slums didn't empty out to try and kick down Marick's door if the plan went ahead. He had been starved before. He had been tormented with the possibility of food, only to have it thrown away in front of him. He wasn't even certain that the plan wouldn't leave the Devils worse off in the long run, no matter how much they stole.

A small, rebellious part of him he didn't like, which he rarely acknowledged, also wanted this plan to fail, just so Marick would understand what it was like for everything to be swept from under him. To have someone blindside and derail his plans, keep him in the dark, just because they could.

"In the meantime," Marick said. "Help yourself to the ale."

He planted himself in his chair with half of his guild still staring open-mouthed, and promptly beckoned a serving girl over to share it with him. A self-satisfied smile occupied his face.

"You can't be serious," Jordan whispered hoarsely, even forgetting his distaste to lean close to Arlen's ear. "Burning food stores?"

"Later, kid," Arlen muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "Don't give anyone a reaction."

With seemingly great effort, Jordan sat back on his stool, but his ale was left forgotten on the bar behind him and his fists clenched so hard in his lap Arlen fancied he could hear the leather squeaking. He only hoped that no one interpreted the sharp rise in crackling magic as anger.

He met Usk's gaze over Jordan's head. The Varthian's face gave nothing away, but all the usual rough humour had vanished from his eyes.

"I just think," Jordan muttered, holding up a finger when Arlen glared, "that maybe the incoming plague should be factored in."

"The fucking what?"

Two pinpricks of angry green stared right back at him from the depths of Jordan's hood. "You heard me."

Arlen closed his eyes. A chuckle, devoid of humour, escaped his lips. "Where did you hear this from, kid?"

"Ex-Varthian bloke had word from his old tribe in the area. Harkenn's getting the news as we speak."

"Where from?" Usk rumbled.

"Klinort."

"Not mine, then." The brute rolled his shoulders. "But Varthians don't lie, not about shit like that."

Arlen glanced at Marick on the dais, heart sinking like a stone. "Fuck."